


Ambivalence

by lets_keep_walking



Series: Four-Inch Little Shit-Biscuits [2]
Category: Trolls (2016)
Genre: Cloud doesn't know how to tag, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Kidnapping, M/M, Old Writing, Someone stop me, because why not, creek's an asshole, i gotchu anon i gOTCHU, old tumblr stuff, then again when isn't he an asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-24 11:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12011484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lets_keep_walking/pseuds/lets_keep_walking
Summary: Loveləv/noun1.an intense feeling of deep affection.Who knew one person could devastateso much?





	1. Changing the Minds of Pretenders

**Author's Note:**

> @scootingaround12 STRIKES AGAIN*
> 
> ________  
> *No sleep was obtained in the duration of this

There was a quiet knock on his door. Then two. Then four.

At ten, there was a groan.

Branch stomped through on the way to the door, refusing to hide the fact that he was annoyed. It was late at night, and even Poppy wasn’t up this late, unless Biggie was baking again.

He muttered to himself softly. Those cupcakes consisted more of icing than actual cake.

“Poppy, it’s late at night, what’re you even doing out here?”

“I’m not exactly Poppy, but thanks for the warm welcome,” A thick accent drawled.

Creek had started to take a special interest in Branch since the eleventh time he destroyed one of Poppy’s invitations, and hence after, Creek would always be sprinkled in somewhere in his vison. Talking to Poppy, or with her friends, or with other Trolls–

And he’d always wave at him, or find some way to get him included in whatever stupid point he was trying to get across. ‘What do _you_ think, Branch?’ or 'Do _you_ really think so, Branch?’ or even, 'Are _you_ sure _you_ won’t come and join us?’

No matter how frivolous or degrading the question was, if Branch was around, Creek would be too, and he’d always try to make Branch feel a bit more welcome.

In the beginning, Branch didn’t exactly believe what Creek was trying to do–he wasn’t so quick to trust him as much as the rest of the village was. He’d always see that blissful smile that’d cross his face, and for a moment, just a moment, Creek was gone, and something else took his place.

Of course, while they were getting to know each other–or rather, Creek refusing to let Branch out of his sight–Branch didn’t cease his reputation as a walking entity of sass, dropping hints about how dangerous walking around at night was, asking what Creek would do if a Bergen ever attacked, and giving his two cents on what an _excellent_ guru he was.

At first, Branch didn’t bother trying to get Creek to leave–that bug of his could take him anywhere, and besides, after being starved from attention for so many years, he began to enjoy it.

At least Creek knew when he was pushing a line and didn’t force him into things he absolutely despised. Not once did Creek force him to join them in a party or any other gathering that involved a huge gaggle of over enthusiastic trolls. It was just the two of them respectively, and quietly.

And since Creek saw the slight dip in Branch’s personality, his whole demeanor was deceptively friendly.

–

“What do you want?”

“Hello to you too. Can I come in?”

“Will you leave sooner if you do?”

“Swear on it.”

“Fine.”

There was a click, then three. At six, Creek was a little more than concerned. At ten, he was left wondering how many locks one troll could possibly own when the floor opened from under him.

A pair of arms got him before he could hit the ground, and promptly dropped him before he could even speak.

“Can I at least say thank you?”

“Your welcome.”

“You’re infuriating,” Creek groaned as he picked himself off the ground and opted to follow him.

“And you’re dumb if you’re just now realizing that,” Branch replied coolly, “Now what do you want?”

“Am I not allowed to say hi?” asked Creek as he came to a pause on the makeshift elevator’s landing.

“You’ve already said that.”

Creek’s shoulders sagged with feigned despondence. “Well I just wanted to see if you needed any company.”

“And why’d'ja think that?” Branch asked, flicking the switch to signal the descent.

“I don’t know, other than the fact that you’re always down here? Alone? Literally all the time,” said Creek as the elevator softly sank into the depression in the ground. “Doesn’t that feel terrible?”

Branch pretended to think about that, and when the elevator stopped once more, he gave his answer.

“Than being eaten by a Bergen?” Branch shrugged as he began walking forward, “Not really.”

“You know what I mean!” Creek insisted. “You’re everything a troll isn’t— dull, serious, paranoid, I don’t get it,” Creek threw his hands up in exasperation.

“Doesn’t that, I don’t know, get old? I mean, it’s sensible for you to prepare, but living like this,” His hands fell to his sides with an audible pop.

“Isn’t that…y'know,” he gestured with his arms as if they’d finish his question.

He hadn’t realized how much of an impact his words held until he saw Branch’s face. They had stopped at his little wall of maps and pins. His eyes were downcast, contemplating, and his ears were on the low.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but abruptly closed it, and decided to press forward.

“You’re much more different than everyone else.” Creek said, worry dripping into his tone. “There’s no one else like you.”

“I gotta be me,” Branch muttered loud enough for Creek to hear, then stopped, turned around, so he could get a good look at him.

“You’re being nice to me,” Branch said, bemused.

Creek shrugged. “Someone had to start. But seriously,” He added, picking up his pace, “It’s hard to imagine one person doing all of this.”

There was a fond pat on Branch’s shoulder. “You’ve done a good job.”

Branch’s eyebrows rose in acknowledgment, and Creek noticed that a bit of color–perhaps a flash of crimson–was starting to show on his face.

Armed with only a few choice words, Creek was able to make one of the most stubborn and grumpiest trolls alive delve into a flustered condition and a state of deliberation.

And he _loved it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao i remember loving and hating this series
> 
> i can't believe how short this is???


	2. While Chasin' the Clouds Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> huehuehue i wonder where thAT title came from

“What’re you doing out here?”

“What, am I not allowed t'go outside now?”

Poppy shook her head. “No, it’s just that I never get to see you in the morning.”

Branch shrugged, began to break off dead sticks and twigs, and decided that he didn’t want to talk, as was his wont.

“Are you less talkative because of Creek?”

Branch was seen around the village much more than they were ready to admit. The rule was that if Creek was there, Branch would be too, albeit reluctantly. It wasn’t Branch and Creek, it was _BranchandCreek_ , and most of the troll tribe believed that Creek was trying to tutor Branch in their ways despite failing miserably.

If you got to see them during the afternoon, prepare yourself for a little bit of blood and a little lot of brawl. Creek decided that using a condescending tone of voice–much like how one would mock an infant–would be the most effective method in ‘explaining’ things that Branch didn’t understand. He had even gone so far as to call Branch 'widdle’ because of their minute height difference.

The patronizing tone of voice had already been high enough on Branch’s list as a bane of existence, so when the don’t-touch-me’s and the stop-calling me-that’s’ didn’t work, Branch had switched to physical violence, and had given Creek a sucker punch to his jaw. What ensued shortly after would be a major fight that consisted more of angry yelling than factual points.

Creek had frowned grimly, gave Branch a look that promised a reprise later, then, agitated, whirled around and left the way he came.

“Yeah,” Poppy continued as if Branch had given her a reply, anxiously twiddling her fingers, “I’ve never seen Creek that angry. You?” She asked.

Branch, per usual, didn’t give answer, and lifted his newly accumulated pile of dead shrubbery.

“Are you okay?” She asked worriedly, then slowly, “Creek didn’t...hurt you, did he?”

It was only for her sake that he replied with a tiny shake of his head.

“Good! I was beginning to get a li'l worried. Anyways, here!” A thick scrapbook was thrust unto his possession. “Satin and Chenille are hosting their first soirée and wondered if you guys’re coming.”

She happily skipped away before he could turn down her proposal.

He shifted the weight of his cargo to his hip, and began the long walk home.

* * *

_The winter winds are here again._

_They rattle the leaves and make a din._

_A skeleton’s sound throughout the halls,_

_Echoing around my empty walls._

It was beautiful. And disheartening.

It was upsetting to think that Branch, one of the meanest trolls in troll history was actually way better at articulating the points Creek was trying to get across.

How many nights did Creek lie awake thinking only about coercing his words onto pencil and paper, when someone lower than him has already been doing it for probably all of his life? They were true words, beautiful poetic prose that artfully depicted a  
scene in vivid detail, leaving wonderful imagery for the reader to ruminate on, when all Creek could do was give half-hearted guru mumbo-jumbo in an attempt to perk someone up.

Have you ever tried to forget about something a close friend could do that was better than something could ever try to achieve?

It’s not exactly easy to forget.

And Creek didn’t.

He was glad that he had decided to pay Branch a visit, or he would’ve never found the perfect way to get back at him for his misbehavior.

* * *

Someone had gone into his bunker.

Branch figured it out when he saw his mat. It was shifted an intentional four inches from where it was meant to reside.

Come to think of it, none of his traps had gone off either. Only someone who knew exactly where they were planted could’ve pulled a stunt like that off, and there was no way it could’ve been Poppy, not with her short attention span.

Branch swore softly and quietly headed inside.

Nothing seemed to be disturbed when Branch reached the landing at the elevator, so he flicked the lever and began to observe his other possessions during his descent. He checked the weights in his gym, the storage where he kept his backup’s backup, and even the canon in his armory, but not a single thing appeared to have been moved in any way.

He was alerted to the sound of a soft rip and a quiet chuckle. A frown perforated Branch’s face, and his resolve was firm–that was definitely Creek.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Branch crept up to his door, closed a fist around the knob, a popped the door open.

He expected Creek, and he got Creek. However, what he didn’t expect was to see shredded strips of paper on the ground that looked all too familiar.

Creek turned around with a simper smile and paper cuts imbedded into his hands.

“Say,” Creek began arms akimbo, oblivious to the horrified expression on his partner’s face, “what kind of paper do you use? It’s awfully crisp.”

“Card stock,” Branch hissed. “Serves you right, what’re you doing he-”

His gaze focused on the paper on the ground. His regular paper was stored in his desk drawer, but he reserved card stock only for–

“You didn’t,” Branch accused, noting on how quick his intake of breath had become. Creek seemed to notice that too.

“I did.”

“Why?” Branch’s voice was almost to a whisper.

Creek’s expression changed to one of faux concern. “You really hurt me the other day. I just thought I’d _return the favor_.” Creek’s look hardened at the last few words.

Branch kneeled and lifted a crumpled scrap of paper. The words were barely legible, even in his smooth cursive.

_The winter–_

_Skeleton’s sounds–_

_I am forever–_

_Gracious host–_

All of his years of hard work, so easily ruined in one swift moment.

It wasn’t exactly easy to stare at a piece of paper and have inspirational words magically come to you on your beck and call. There were many a time in which Branch would lay awake at night, always thinking, always looking for the perfect phrase, the perfect syllable to illustrate his point.

Now all that hard work was for naught.

“Hey,” a soothing voice cooed, “it’ll be alright. C'mere.” Creek sat next to him, smiled at him, and even had the audacity to wrap his arms around him.

And Branch, in his confused and overwrought state of mind, responded in kind, burying his face onto Creek’s front–and was he crying?

“Don’t cry, love,” Creek whispered into his ear, “If you’d like, we can write new poetry together.”

Branch, with shut eyes and a runny nose agreed with a sniff and a nod, and resumed their hug.

Together, they fell asleep, lulled by whispered words and shed tears, surrounded by some of the best poetry ever to be created by a troll, but never to be seen again.

* * *

_And yet you come and somehow bring,_

_A source of life when you start to sing._

_You apply the flesh and soften the ghosts,_

_And I am your ever gracious host._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem isn't mine, it belongs to @omgthatsruff on tumblr, but they've long since deleted their blog and I can't find them.


	3. Holding Hands With Your Heart to See You

Creek did not understand the inner workings of personal space. There’d always be a ‘friendly’ arm, slung across Branch’s shoulders or around his waist, which Branch would agitatedly flick off with a lengthy explanation of why he _didn’t_ want to be touched.

Creek would agree, and then pick right back up where he started a few minutes later.

It was suffocating, having his arm propped up against him. Every nerve went on alert; his body would tense up as if in preparation for a fight, and his head desperately screamed for him to _get off!_

But a tiny part–just a teensy portion of him didn’t mind the close contact. It wasn’t like he was being attacked, and he’d be lying to himself if it didn’t feel nice. Creek wasn’t as aggressive with it as he thought he’d be, and it was fine as long as he discontinued the affection when Branch asked him to.

Branch mumbled incoherently into his fists. His knees were to his chest, and Creek was behind him, playing with his hair.

“Your hair is so stiff–don’t you brush it?” Creek asked while twirling a lock of it.

It was fascinating; colored trolls’ hair was soft and curly, but Branch’s hair was dark and thick; it wove around his fingers like brambles. It was disobedient, flinched away from hair care products of any kind, and absolutely refused to stay in braids or knots.

It was his first defense, Branch would explain, he would never put anything in it to deter it from keeping him safe. Even the stroke of a comb was put under consideration–Branch’s hair meant much to him.

And his skin, it possessed the illusion of being smooth, but when touched, shrank back, and you’d feel something that’s texture was more or less equivalent to a rock.

“Only occasionally,” Branch replied. He sounded sleepy. It was only noon.

“And when is occasionally?”

Branch shrugged and felt something smooth run across his shoulder.

“Your skin is so _rugged_ ,” Creek breathed, and Branch tensed up.

“Thank you?” It sounded more like a question than an expression of gratitude.

“Are you okay?” Creek asked with a little chuckle.

“Not at all.”

“Bringing up your unique perspective on things again, eh? That’s cute,” Creek mocked with a poke at his now flushed cheek.

“Aren’t you just the life of the party,” Branch drawled with a little roll of his eyes.

“Why, a'yes I am.”

Then Creek’s brows came down. Branch was surprisingly less sarcastic than his given quota–much less, actually. He hadn’t swatted away the hand that poked him, or the one that puppeteered his arm.

In fact, he seemed too quiet, and much too fatigued. His eyelids were droopy, he had a hard time focusing on the things Creek said, and his he kept ignoring him. Intentionally or not, that was a problem.

“You look tired–have you gotten enough sleep?”

Branch nodded absentmindedly.

“Have you eaten?”

“Mm-hm.”

“When?”

“Oh, I don’t know, last week.”

Creek’s eyes widened.

“You mean to tell me that you haven’t eaten for the past _threedays_?”

“I just didn’t feel hungry.” Branch muttered, and snuggled into Creek’s chest. Everything felt too hazy and blurred all of a sudden, and the sunlight filtering through window seemed too bright. Within minutes, Branch was soon snoring loudly into Creek’s shoulder.

Creek got him to bed well enough, tucked him in, went so far as to place a tiny kiss upon his head, turned, and then marched straight out of Branch’s home and outside.

 _He isn’t eating_ , Creek told himself, and it was up to him to try and get him to do so.

Three days. That’s seventy-two hours, or four thousand three hundred twenty minutes, or two hundred fifty-nine thousand and two hundred seconds without a touch of food, if he did the math correctly.

Creek set his jaw and hinged his fists.

That’d have to change.

* * *

“Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“Perfect!” Creek grinned, “Because I have something I think you’d like.”

Creek handed over a slim bar inlaid with an aluminum wrapper. Branch knew what it was the second he saw the sun’s light reflect off of it.

“Chocolate?”

Creek had begun to bring Branch chunks of food after he had told him about his fickle eating habits. Coincidentally, they’d be there on the days that Branch didn’t have it in him to eat. Of course, while the gesture was greatly appreciated–no hugs or parties seemed fair game–it was incredibly annoying. And his stomach was going to hate him for eating so much at one time. He didn’t even know where Creek _got_ the food.

Often would Creek bring up the 'trials and tribulations’ he had to go through in order to get Branch that particular flavor, effectively guilt-tripping him into eating whatever he brought him, hungry or not.Sometimes, whenever Branch was outside with Creek and actually felt a gnaw in his stomach, Creek would have to audacity to embarrass him with degrading comments on his weight and how much he ate, prompting other Trolls to laugh at him, while at the same time, driving Branch to start subliminally eating at the same time and at a rate that paralleled Creek’s.

As adamant as Branch was, he did not take too kindly to everyone else laughing at him. Hating and ignoring him, sure, utter humiliation was a clear-cut no.

“Dark chocolate to be exact,” Creek remarked, “Isn’t that your favorite?”

“Was my favorite. I can’t stand the stuff now. Thank you, but I’ll pass.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Definitely sure. I’ve already eaten; I’ll save it for later.”

“Alright, love,” Creek responded with counterfeit sadness, placed a kiss on his cheek, a 'boop’ on his nose, then left him with a promise to come back tomorrow.

When the door closed, Branch relaxed a bit more into his seat, and wiped away the nonexistent residue the kiss left on his face. It bothered him that Creek would stray past his specific list of boundaries.

In fact, if he was precise, Branch suddenly remembered all the times Creek ignored him in public. He seemed to be doing that various times now, followed with a full set of demeaning 'jokes’ at his expense, on how a 'little touch wouldn’t hurt him’ and how it 'might do him some good’.

“As if,” Branch mumbled angrily to himself, head propped onto his palm. If anything, it did him worse. He had trouble sleeping at night, which would result in him being groggy and irritable in the morning.

Begrudgingly, he tucked the bar of chocolate into his pocket, thought for a moment, then brought it back out.

It would melt, he figured, and that’d be a hassle to wash. He resolved to store it with the rest of its kind later and leave left it alone on the table for now.

If only Creek would do the same.

* * *

If you take a good, long look at the words infuriating, annoying, vexing, and problematic, you’d find a picture of Creek.

It felt like that’s all could aspire to be.

Branch had enough of Creek’s games and taunts, and stood his ground in public. He swatted away his arm when he felt like it, and ate when he chose to, while at the same time vehemently ignoring the stares and looks he got as he did so.

He almost felt a little foolish. He never cared about what anyone else said, not even their thoughts nonetheless, so why did his relationship with Creek persuade him to take that path?

He ate less and less, and always in Creek’s line of sight. Just a little payback, a taste of his own medicine. Besides, it was amusing to watch his annoyed expression from the corner of his eye. Felt great to be deliberately ignored by someone you care about, didn’t it? To never have your opinion put through any consideration?

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”

Branch whirled around, brows furrowed and body tense. For the first time, Creek had managed to slip under his radar. Anger rolled off him in waves–he never let it show, but Branch knew what signs to look for.

Creek’s right arm was behind his back, and his left was in a slightly outstretched fist, as if he was _teaching_ you something. He had a scowl on his face and a fire in his eyes, the curl at the end of his hair was on the frizz, and his tone of voice–

Have you ever had a parent who _never_ yelled at you when they were angry? Instead they had this 'calm’ and 'controlled’ voice that would terrify the living daylights out of you?

Couple that with someone who knows _all_ your weak points and has no qualms about physically harming you, and you’ve got a thick recipe for disaster.

Branch didn’t acknowledge Creek with complete resolve. Just hearing him had instilled a split second of sheer terror.

“I try,” he shrugged, trying to shake the remaining tremors of fear out of him. If Creek saw any trace of outward horror, he’d press on it, and Branch would succumb.

“And that’s all anyone asks you for,” Creek replied coolly, tilted his head as if in thought, then asked, “Branch, love, did you have anything to eat today?”

If you get a generic test question wrong, you end up with a bad grade. Get an answer from Creek wrong, and you’d end up with a black eye.

And Branch wished he could get away. He was trapped by Creek’s lies and acts, and was absolute certain that no other Troll’d ever love him. He didn’t even need Creek to know that. He was grey where they were bright, sarcastic while they were peppy, and willingly surrounded himself with a personality that shut everything in and kicked others out.

“I said, _love_ ,” Creek forced the words out of his mouth when Branch didn’t answer, arms akimbo, “did you have anything to eat today?”

“Yes,” Branch answered. It was futile to lie; his pause gave him away.

“Like what?”

“The chocolate.”

Creek thought for a moment, and then procured one of the smuggest looks he’d ever seen.

“Do you mean,” Creek began, reaching into his hair, “this chocolate?”

Creek’s now outstretched arm held a bar inlaid with aluminum wrapping.

Branch slapped himself inwardly. He’s forgotten to store the chocolate away!

“Does it even matter?” Branch asked Creek’s conceited grin, “I’m fine, I already ate breakfast, and I don’t feel like eating anymore!”

“Of course it matters, love!” Creek exclaimed, and Branch noted that he was two steps closer than his initial distance, “Why do you think that you have to lie to me?”

“Oh, gee, well, I don’t know,” Branch spat, “maybe it’s because if it weren’t for you, I’d never feel so horrible!”

Creek recoiled like that actually hurt him.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Creek remarked quietly.

“Just _returning the favor_ ,” Branch hissed, “Sound familiar?”

Creek looked amused, and was three steps closer.

“Using my own words against me, hm? That’s adorable, I’m so proud,” Creek cooed while pinching Branch’s cheek.

He retaliated by aggressively swatting the hand away.

“Hey!”

Suddenly Branch’s hand was overlapped by his partner’s, whose playful tone was instantly replaced with a stone cold demeanor.

“I _said_ ,” Creek repeated steely, “that wasn’t very _nice_ , love.”

“Does it _look_ like I care?” Branch snarled, holding his own while his hand was getting crushed.

“That’s not good,” Creek growled, “because you _should_.”

Tensions were rising, and tempers were flaring of the mental charts. Creek had never been rough with him. Sure, there was the occasional love bite on his neck and his side was sore from Creek–gently!–whacking him, but he had never gone so far as to sprain his wrist. Suddenly all that craze on eating drove him bonkers about not having control with Branch and what he ate–this whole ordeal never would’ve happened if Creek had just listened to him!

Creek became so many things all at one time. A friend, a partner, a fighter–

An enemy. One that he was losing to.

He couldn’t feel the tips of his fingers, and was pretty sure that his arm wasn’t supposed to tremble so much. Creek had much strength, and courage, and wits.

If only he put them to good use, problems would be rectified in a snap.

Fortunately for Branch, that’s exactly what his arm did, and reality followed suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry he's (not) fine


	4. Only Blue Talk and Love, Remember?

“Branch?”

His arm pulsed with sympathetic pain, and his point of view was much too bright.

Branch awoke to the sharp tattoo of someone knocking on his door. He ignored it, going on instead to flex his arm and stabilize his breathing.

That one had been a bit too realistic. He could still feel the warm pressure on his hand, and could still hear hushed taunts and pretenses of security and protection as his will was slowly and irrevocably drained by–

It still hurt. Branch still hurt, and it was getting difficult with each passing day to tell himself that Creek was gone.

He knew he shouldn’t, but he still missed him terribly. The warm smile he’d give him in the morning, the way his whispered words tickled his neck and summoned an impromptu burn of scarlet across his face.

They were the twisted kind of happy, like consuming a large amount of sugary sweets and regretting the stomachache later, only Branch never really regretted anything in his life, excluding Creek, but a part of his heart still melted for that hand to hold and shoulder to lean on, and he hated that. He had a right to hate Creek forever.

Branch groaned when the knocking penetrated through his concentration. Couldn’t they wait a little longer?

He stormed up to the door, refused to hide the fact that he was upset, noted the sudden rush of deja-vu as he did so, then threw open the door.

It was her again, but the pink around her edges were dimmed, and she looked like she carried less glitter in her hair.

His expression was stagnant while he processed her gloomy case. Her eyes looked more than worried, and she was upholding her trademark look of horribly covered nervousness; she was twiddling her fingers.

“Are you alright?”

Other than the fact that the only person he cared about turned out to be the lead to his emotional demise?

“Yeah,” he replied, voice climbing an octave, “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Mm-hm,” he hummed, “Never been better.”

“Have you eaten?”

Since Creek’s banishment, Poppy put herself to the task of making sure Branch got at least a nibble of something throughout his day.She started with parties during certain intervals of time to prompt him into at least trying something.

That only worsened his case, and just made him homesick. Once, she gave him a chocolate bar. Not pure dark chocolate, which was much too bitter, it was dark mixed with a tad of milk chocolate. Not too sour, and not too sweet.

He must not have liked it, because he disappeared into his bunker and didn’t leave for the rest of day.

“Not really. Didn’t feel like it,” he mumbled, eyes averted.

Her little grin was the only sign of optimism he saw on her face. A platter of mini cupcakes was magically thrust into his arms. This had to the tenth one all week.

“I thought you might say that,” she said, “So I made you some in case you get hungry. You don’t have to eat them if you don’t want to.”

She didn’t have to visit him or give him the time of day, yet there she was, smiling shyly before waving him goodbye.

“Wait!”

She spun around to face him, a bit of hope washing all over her face.

He took a deep breath.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe…I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She nodded, and her pink seemed a little brighter.

“Tommorow,” she repeated, waved, then left.

He headed inside feeling a tiny bit better, but when he shut the door and set the platter onto a nearby table, he was hit to and fro with memories in his head and thick pressure on his heart.

He didn’t have to if he didn’t want to. The words didn’t come from her mouth, they were smug, and heavily laden with guilt and threats and lies and _hurt_ –

It still _hurt_. Branch still _hurt_.

They smelled familiar. They were chocolate cupcakes. It could be possible that they were made with the same ingredients as the chocolate she tried to give him before.

The one Creek had given him–

It was still there. Branch had stored it back to where he had planned to, and it was waiting patiently for the day that he’d stop ‘saving it for later’ and eat it.

Consuming so much food with Creek had switched his sweet tooth’s opinion on chocolate. It just didn’t seem like a viable option anymore. Lots of things Creek had used against him lost their luster.

Card stock. Nicknames. Kisses.

 _Cupcakes_.

Suddenly the little pastries looked unappealing, the gnawing of his stomach faded, and wet seeped through his shut eyes.

_Are you sure about that, love?_

It was harsh, and severe to refuse to listen to that crooning voice and promises of comfort, but he did.

He didn’t look at the plate for the rest of the day.

–

Out of habit, he began to head back outside. He had someone he promised to see.

She had seen him and was on the other side. She’d meet him at the middle.

As he padded down the grassy terrain, he was met with looks of pity concern. Branch decided that it was nice that they thought so much of him.

_They didn’t before._

He shook off the constriction in his throat at met her with a less than bored attitude.

“Hey, Branch,” she smiled warmly, took in his appearance, then frowned.

“You look tired, did you eat today?”

Branch shrugged.

He looked awfully thin, his eyes were sunken and his cheeks were gaunt.

What had Creek done to him?

It was a fortnight by now, and Branch reported to have not a taste of anything to eat!This was bad. Poppy felt her hair sink into her scalp, and she twiddle her fingers in a shallow attempt tohave something moving.

He wasn’t eating. Willingly, wasn’t eating. It was like Creek never left!

Oh, grumpy, sarcastic, innocent Branch. Poppy was gonna fix him, whether he liked it or not.

And, she was going to _hate_ herself for it.

–

Poppy prided herself on being a fountain of everlasting and annoying joy. One of the perks that came with it was making people laugh. Like Branch. _Especially_ Branch.

“Wait, hold on,” she chuckled, trying to hold back her brimming laughter, “I’ve got another one.”

“Alright,” Branch said, “lay it on me.”

“Do you mind if I walk you home?” Poppy began, a snooty expression on her face.

“No,” Branch replied, preparing for a laugh, “why?”

“Because I was always told to follow my dreeeams,” Poppy swooned, hands clasped in a faux love sick tone of voice.

Branched couldn’t help it, and barked out a laugh.

“That had to be the lamest pickup line in existence,” Branch scolded playfully. Poppy’s prominent grin grew wider.

“Don’t worry. That’s just Plan A!” She cheered.

“Oh really?” Branch drawled, inwardly surprised that Poppy made plans to begin with, “What’s Plan B?”

Her demeanor plummeted. Her smile dropped. She turned to him steely, and her eyes were apologetic.

For the first time in his life, Poppy looked remotely terrifying.

“Taking you hostage,” she answered, seriously. There was a click, a snap, and then the ground rushed to meet his eyes.

–

When he awoke, the smell of chocolate and pastries welcomed him back to reality. He groaned and hung his head. Nausea did too.

Movement was restricted, his limbs were tied to a metal chair, there was another in front of him, and apparently, sight was as well. Everything was incredibly bright, from the neon pink signs on certain doors to the pink-hosed furniture.

Only one person can have so much pink and be stupidly proud of it at the same time.

“Poppy,” he groaned.

“Yeah?” Called a voice from behind him. He hopped ever so slightly, so that he had turned to face the pink monster.

“I can tell that you’re upset,” Poppy said coolly, wiping flour onto her dress.

“Upset?” Branch repeated. “You think I’m just up _set_?”

There was going to be a nasty bruise to find in the morning.

“Do you know the possibilities of hitting someone’s head?

She gave a tiny head shake.

"They’re fatal, and there’s always a probability of _death_ ,” he hissed, “You could have killed me.”

A fixed frown of concern contorted her face, and her fingers met her lips.

“Saving,” she explained, “for later. And I didn’t kill you. That’s a plus, right?”

“Why am I tied to this chair?”

“Duh,” she began, heading towards the door, “so you wouldn’t leave.”

“So why am I here?”

“Because–”

Poppy stopped, and wondered if it were a good idea to tell him. There was a reason he wasn’t eating. He wouldn’t tell her the exact details, but she knew it had to have been because of Creek.

“Hello? Poppy?”

She snapped herself out of her stupor and reached for her plate. Then, she spun around, strutted out of the door, and sat in front of him.

“I’m feeding you,” she announced, “that’s why you’re here.” She picked up a tiny cake, and forced it through his dropped jaw.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait,” Branch protested thickly, “ _what_?”

“I’m _feeding_ you,” she repeated.

“Why?”

“Do I really need to answer that question?” She proceeded to feed him another, but he kept his mouth shut.

“Fine,” she sighed, “but you’re gonna wanna eat eventually.”

Dumbfounded, he watched her leave the room. She was acting so calm about this whole ordeal, as if kidnapping someone was her weekly recreational activity.

She took it upon herself to start getting him to eat again. No threats about his safety, no poking fun at his weight or ‘fattening up for the winter’, and no sleazy attempts at unwanted touch or grasps at his affections.She was doing everything Creek hadn’t. Keeping his comfort at her center of attention, skipping over to visit him when everyone else wouldn’t, even bringing him food when she knew he wouldn’t eat it.

That was admittedly special than what Creek had ever done.

So, he called her back, begrudgingly let himself be fed like an infant, and she released him with a box of cookies and a promise to get back to him tomorrow.

–

The chocolate was old, still wrapped in shiny aluminum, probably rotten.

It was amazing how the smallest things could make you feel so much. He knew he shouldn’t miss Creek, shouldn’t miss all the horrible games he’d play and his ploys, but it was remarkably easier now.

_Are you sure about that, love?_

“Yes,” Branch answered, his voice lower than a whisper.

“I’m sure.”

 With a soft smile, he tossed it into his fireplace.

That night, he was lulled to sleep with a full stomach and the smell of chocolate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pops took charge amirite


	5. Mandlebrot Rainbows; Screamin' Tornadoes

Glassy blue eyes opened up to stiff blankets and rough skin. The jagged contours of his body meant that he was grey again. He hadn’t noticed his change overnight.

She might’ve had, though. He slept shirtless, and loved the way her fleece pajamas would rub against his skin, so she was always close. His face would find purchase on the crook of her neck, smothering her in kisses, and her little giggles and slight rise in temperature would tickle his ears.Their legs would tangle, and she’d retaliate by pulling their faces flush and blowing a wet raspberry onto his cheek. He’d protest, and her pealing laughter was what he would fall asleep to.

It wasn’t his first relapse, but he was never conscious when he did. It made him wonder, how did it feel to her? Did it sadden her? Ladle her with excessive worry?

She should never know what that felt like.

“And yet,” Poppy had giggled that night. He’d given her a warm smile; his finger traced the curve of her cheek, and then he whispered into her ear.

“Aww,” she cooed, then pressed a tiny kiss to his nose, “I love you too. Now c'mere and go to sleep.”

He had laughed; an arm curled around her waist, and pulled her closer.

Now the sun was up only a quarter ways into the sky, and he yawned as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and shrugged on his vest. He stood up, than immediately sat back down, under a case of vertigo.A sigh flew up his throat once he obtained a bit of equilibrium, and passed his lips in despondence. An overly bright piece of paper caught his eye, and without the slightest hint of hesitation, opened it up and hoped it was bereft of glitter.

Thankfully, it was, and her fluid, sort-of cursive greeted him. Her smile leaked onto the paper albeit the color it was written in–grey, how fitting. The letter made it clear that she was in the children’s pod reading to them from her massive storybook, that she made him mini cupcakes, and that she loved him _fiercely_ and would see him later.

He chuckled to himself, glanced at the food, but refrained from it. He just–

Didn’t feel hungry.

Branch shuddered. _That_ resurfaced old memories.

And suddenly, he was disappointed with himself. This was the first relapse in a fortnight. Couldn’t he at least try to retain some of his happiness? He had so much that would make him smile silly with joy. He had his friends, his people. He had _her_.

And gosh darn it if she hadn’t been trying her best to help him keep his colors. And he appreciated that.

He was happy. He was _severely_ happy.

He just wished his colors would show it.

He raked his hands through his hair, sighed again, reached for his notebook, and–

Was promptly greeted by glitter and Poppy’s name spelled in blocky letters.

This was not his notebook. His notebook was full of poetry.

This was Poppy’s scrapbook. Something she was supposed to read to the children.

That could only mean one thing.

Branch left their home in a rush, but not before considering taking his crown.

He had no reason to be seen, he figured, and left it behind.

He wondered how he was going to make it to the uppermost branch in only a few minutes.

He yelped and hid under the roots as a few trolls walked by. They didn’t need to know about his lack of color. The last thing he wanted to do was give them any sense of worry.Ever since he married Poppy, Branch took his responsibility as king very seriously, and valued the mental and physical safety of his people. If they thought he was feeling under the weather, suspicions would arise, and people would panic.

But there had to be a way to get up to the children’s pod without being detected. He could always hide among the foliage. His vest and shorts wouldn’t be seen as much through the brambles.

Deciding that was the best option, Branch clutched the book in one hand, and crawled through the roots and ducked into a nearby bush, ignoring the scratches the thorns gave him while he climbed. It wasn’t like it was his first time through shrubbery. He did so all the time back in the troll village, whenever he forgot specific supplies and didn’t want to be seen.

He reached for another bramble and pulled himself up. The winds were acting up again; the thorns were more active than usual, but were paltry to him. It was just the flowers that he had to look out for. Branch had terrible allergies, and the flowers that contained the most pollen were chrysanthemums, daisies, goldenrods, sunflowers, maybe lilies?

Lilies were Poppy’s favorite, and he had yet to tell her about his allergens, which meant that she had yet to get rid of them.That also meant that he’d become a sniveling mess if he got too close.

Below him, he heard the brambles rustle, but didn’t dismiss it as easily as he did last time. Instead he pressed himself a bit closer inside the shrubbery.

Someone was out there, and they seemed to notice his pause. Branch briefly wondered if it was just another troll, then burrowed in deeper, allowing the foliage to cover him and hoping his camouflage would do the trick. If someone found him, everyone else would, and then chaos would ensue.

Whoever had been climbing stopped. They heard him, and were waiting for him to continue.Above himself, he heard her, faintly. She was laughing, talking about how she’d gotten the wrong book, and would be right back.

She wouldn’t have to come in here, he reasoned. She would be safe.

Craning his ears to listen on his pursuer, his hair snaked through the thorns and shook the branches to his right.Almost immediately did the troll seeking him begin to climb. Thoughts and scenarios ran through Branch’s head. They certainly weren’t children; no child he met had been so quiet. They were smart, though; they didn’t fall for his ploy and instead were _rightinfrontofhim_.

Branch held his breath. He didn’t have to see through the leaves to know who it was. The air that followed them was answer enough.

Not many trolls were lavender and had curls at the end of their hair.

Or a muted fire in their eyes.

Creek was back. And looking for someone. It was only by chance that Poppy started back up again with her laughter. Creek looked up, tilted his head in thought, and then a predatory grin spilt his face. He continued climbing.

He was going for a different target.

He was going for _her_.

Before he could think coherently, his anger acted for him, grabbed his ankle, and dragged him back. Creek, as if on impulse, pulled his leg back and brought Branch down with him.

Suddenly, hair wrapped around half his face, there was a clap, a _thunk_ , and Branch fell asleep to the sound of laughter.

* * *

That’d been too easy.

Branch had been alone, grey, and apparently, _spying_ on the Queen!The scoundrel even had the audacity to go through her things and steal her storybook! Creek simply thought it’d be fair to punish him, and was sure the princess would understand when he told her.In fact, next to the book, out in the open, he had left a small note on his expectance of her arrival in order for Branch’s safe return.

There was no way in her right mind that she would willingly come and talk to him, much less be on speaking terms with him. Nabbing Branch was the perfect plan.

If plan meant impromptu and abrupt, then yes, it was flawless.

While he served out his banishment, he came across Bergen Town. There had been singing, dancing. Something a bergen would never do.

The rest of the trolls had united with them.

That meant that there’d be a high probability that they’d live in the troll tree again.

Creek hadn’t exactly given much thought to Branch’s exact location at that exact moment; he banked on Branch being alone. Having no obstacles in is way was simply luck working on his side.Poppy had been coronated, Branch was still a grump, and she was still the only one who gave cared for his existence.

Which meant she’d come alone, or with the rest of her friends. It didn’t matter either way.

Branch groaned, the rocking of Creek’s walking making him nauseous. His prison was soft and green tent at the top which progressively turned blue the farther he looked down. Sunlight filtered through the bar-like strands, and his memories jogged. Brambles. Poppy. Laughing.

 _Creek_.

With a snarl, Branch tried to wreath himself through the thick hair. More of it grew in reply, and it got even thicker.

“I wouldn’t try that if I were you,” Creek advised coolly. His captive did not reply, and when Branch didn’t answer, he asked, “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

Branch remained silent.

Creek shrugged. “You were always a little on the quiet side, but its fine. You’ll have to talk sooner or later. ’S only a matter of time.”

There wasn’t much beyond the tunnels, just wild animals scattered about and a few charred logs in a circle.

“Where are you taking me?” Branch asked when the silence became too much.

“Are you asking me to let you go?” Creek asked, amused.

“You wouldn’t even if I asked,” Branch pointed out, “so there’s no point in wasting breath.”

“I suppose,” Creek replied.

“Where are you taking me?” Branch repeated.

“I don’t think I need to tell you,” Creek began, and Branch could already hear the grin crossing his face, “you’ll recognize it when we get there.”

“So what do you need me for?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” Branch answered honestly, “just so I can be as uncooperative as physically possible.”

Creek laughed. “You never grew out of your charms, did you?”

Branch did not reply.

“Anyways,” Creek continued as if he had, “how’s Poppy doing? Have you been taking care of her?”

Branch continued to be silent.

“You’ve certainly taken an interest in her,” Creek pressed. “Were you spying on her?”

“No,” Branch answered, “just returning something.”

“So you stole her storybook? That’s low, even for you,” Creek teased.

“She was holding the wrong book, and she was coming down anyway. I thought I’d meet her halfway.”

“She must consider herself a lucky girl,” Creek remarked, and somewhere, Branch heard something in his voice that implied the complete opposite.

“Speaking of Poppy, what do you think she’ll do when she notices I’m gone?”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Creek dismissed, “I tucked a letter in there that ensures that she’ll have our whereabouts. We should be expecting her in a while.”

“What?”

“Did you not hear me correctly?” Creek asked innocently. “I said we should be expecting her, and maybe a few of her friends too. Depends on how angry she’ll be.”

He seemed to take Branch’s silence as a stun.

“Oh, come now, you knew I had to invite her. No party is complete without someone like her to start it, besides,” his tone turns wistful, “it’ll be nice to see them again, don’t you think?”

Branch remained silent, and Creek trekked on.

“So,” Creek picked back up conversationally, “did you miss me?”

There was a snort. Then a laugh.

“Not on your life.”

“That hurt. I thought you’d miss me,” Creek said with what seemed to be a faux tone of concern.

“I have bigger things to worry about now.”

“Like being history’s biggest grump?”

“Amongst other things.”

“You’ve grown smarter than when I left,” Creek noted, much to Branch’s chagrin.

“Stop saying that as if you just went off on stroll—you were banished and you know it!”

“I like to think of it as a journey of self-discovery.”

“One that took five _years_?”

“Give or take,” Creek mused.

“You’re so aggravating!” Branch exclaimed.

Creek chuckled. “And you’re still as sarcastic as the day we met. That’s what I like about you.”

“Don’t say that,” Branch growled.

“Is there a problem, love?”

“Don’t call me that either.”

Creek seemed to dismiss what Branch claimed. “Have you eaten?”

“And don’t you _dare_ start that back up again,” Branch hissed.

Creek sounded offended. “Well excuse me for caring about your wellbeing! I was just asking, no need to be so tense.”

“The last time you were _justasking_ , I ended up with a broken arm!”

“You deserved it though,” Creek replied simply, “you wouldn’t listen to me.”

“I wasn’t listening because I was fed up with you!” Branch spat. “I regret what we had, that we even had something—it was _bad_!”

“And, pray tell, what exactly do you regret?”

There was something in Creek’s tone that made Branch smirk grimly. Creek was actually hurt by what he said. The smile in his voice was replaced by a warning frown.

“To put it lightly,” Branch began openly, “I regret caring about you.”

“Even when I was the only person who cared about _you_?”

“You never were the only one,” Branch said quietly, slightly taken aback at the hint of actual hurt in Creek’s voice, “I just wasn’t able to see anyone else.”

Branch took silent pride in being able to coerce Creek into feeling something other smug satisfaction. In fact, his hair had crept slowly enough that it had left Branch’s prison in near darkness. Only a few slits of slight shone through.

There was nothing else to do except for sit and think, but Branch opted to play with the ring tied to strands of his hair. He hadn’t liked the idea of wearing it on his finger, as it could have the chance slipping and never being recovered. He reasoned that it would be safer in his hair, and Poppy followed suit.

His was a bright shade of fuchsia on one side, which then bled into a hue of turquoise on the other. Poppy’s was similar, but the colors were on different sides so they could tell which belonged to them, and the colors never twisted within each other the same way, so they memorized their patterns.

Poppy already had the knowledge of his lack of color, and now even more worry was going to be saddled onto her.

But he had something Creek didn’t, something that might aide in his escape. Creek must have no idea about his marriage to Poppy, and he had no idea about the teensy spot of color that was looped around his hair.

He knew something Creek had no grasp on, and if those six months of lies taught him anything, it told him that Creek would want to know what it was.

But it was not like Branch would tell him, anyway. Poppy would have more words on her fists than in her mouth when she found them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao you thought he was safe????
> 
> s i k e


	6. Do You Remember?

Poppy laughed as she descended towards the ground. In her haste to see the children, and coupled with her lack of sleep, she had grabbed the wrong book to read to them, and hadn’t even noticed until she flipped it open. Luckily, she immediately stopped herself from orating their rendition of each other’s anatomy.

She had stumbled awkwardly in her thoughts, once again captivated by the fact that this was something they had written together, that the smooth curves of charcoal was something he had helped her with.

Coming up with just the right word to go with just the right structure of letters and sounds seemed to come so easy for him. He’d stop whenever he got to a point in his writing, think for only a moment or two, then pick it right back up again, avidly twirling a lock of his hair, and humming to himself.

She could only bring herself to stare at him, at the pensive look his face would contort to, and the ring that his fingers would worry. He was so odd in the ways his body would react when he thought. He’d glare and wrinkle his nose at the paper as if it wronged him and glance off into space, processing exactly what he needed to make sure that his works would provide optimal results.

He’d chew on the tip of his stick of charcoal, spit the taste out of mouth and groan, and then would continue his writing as if it had never happened.

He didn’t even seem to think about what he was doing. He just did so.

“How do you do that?”

He’d looked up at her from his notebook, and wordlessly arched a brow.

It was only a few weeks ago. He was lost in thought, bobbing his head occasionally to a beat only he could hear. He wasn’t even writing; just slowly dragging his pencil across the paper, just sketching, just thinking. She had come over and peered over his shoulder, completely violating the unspoken artists rule. The smooth swirls and dips of the pencil were spontaneous, impromptu, unorganized, and still so controlled. His grip on the pencil never wavered, and his eyes never tore from the page.

Her head had leaned against his shoulder, and her eyes closed in an attempt to feign sleeping, but the quiet sounds of his heartbeat and his breathing and the pencil scrabbling on paper had become too loud for her to ignore.

“I mean, the poetry stuff,” Poppy had begun, instantly regretting her decision to make verbal contact, “how do you do it?”

His brows furrowed, and he tapped his pencil thoughtfully against his cheek, leaving a stark stain against his blue skin. She involuntarily moved to swipe it away.

“I just—” his hand bearing the pencil flitted while he spoke “—think.”

“Then what?”

He wriggled the pencil between his fingers. “Then I write.”

“And then?”

He flipped to a page in the notebook. “Then stuff like this happens.”

A fond smile crossed her face. It was one of her favorites. The one about eyes and smiling. Back during their rescue mission in an attempt to save what had almost been a failed attempt at landing Bridget a score with the king. He made her smile then, too.

She’d never thought that someone so negatively bent on life could create something so complicated.

She looked at him from her eyelashes. “Could you teach me?”

“Sure,” he supplied, and that was it.

It took them a full week, several whispered words of encouragement and little nothings, but she had done it. She had written something that she actually enjoyed reading. He added his own input, his own words, and the poem became theirs, a gleeful entanglement of styles, handwriting, and ideas.

There was no way she was going to share it, much less to talkative, sugar prone kids. It was special. They made this together, and she, bound by the unspoken rules of sentimentality, wouldn’t dare to read it aloud. She’d just go back, grab her storybook, and press a little kiss onto Branch’s cheek. He might still be sleeping.

He was still grey, she undoubtedly thought to herself as she scaled down the tree. She wasn’t worried at all. It was only a matter of time, she figured. You can’t go from having a Polaroid snapshot to a colorful stock photo and still expect the picture to be the same, likewise with going from twenty years of depression and silent self-loathing to pure unadulterated sunshine. Things didn’t work that way, life was never that kind.

And sure, maybe a tiny bit of her heart would beat anxiously for him, and how could it not? He was her husband; she loved him.

But the funny thing was that he’d actually think that she’d be excessively worried. She didn’t need his colors to be particularly bright for her to know he was happy, she knew in the way he smiled at her, how he’d lovingly brush away a strand of hair from her face while she pretended to sleep and while he pretended not to notice.

The sun filtered through the tree’s branches, and someone asked her about where she was going.

“I’m fine,” she replied. “Just got the wrong book to read to the kids!”

The kids.

She had completely forgotten about them!

“Oh, could you send someone to watch them while I’m out? It’ll only be for a little while.” She kept up the smile on her face while she spoke. It was something Branch had taught her, to never let what you’re thinking show on your face. It could excite the wrong reaction, or someone could use it against you.

She began to hum, her stagnant smile curling as she skipped along branches and used her hair to dart from them. She couldn’t wait to see him again, even if it were only for a little while.

But her upbeat tempo declined once a spot of pink appeared in her peripheral vison. It was familiar and inside one of the bushes. Her brows furrowed, and her hair retreated into its normal length.

If she peered closely enough at it, it sort of looked like--

She gasped. Her storybook! What was it doing there?

Curious, she anchored herself with her hair on a branch above, and then slowly lowered herself into the brambles. Once there, her hair let go of the branch as she clung to one of the vines, then turned brown. She was never good at climbing or being absolutely silent, but instantaneously changing the color of her hair was something she could to in a fraction of a sliver of a second.

As quietly as she could be, she snaked through the thorny brambles, keeping an eye and ear out for anything.

Her book wasn’t supposed to be there, much less outside. For a brief second, she wondered if someone had tried to steal it, then shook her head. Why would they leave it if that’s what they were trying to do? She clutched Branch’s notebook closer to her.

When her feet touched the ground, her eyes darted, and she waited, one second, two, then three, then cautiously came out of hiding and picked up her book. She sighed and swiped nonexistent residue off the cover out of habit. Whoever had it must not have remembered to come back for it, or they might have heard her and left. It pained her to think that there was a thief roaming around their village, and resolved to be more careful in the future.

Poppy, now one book heavier, made her way towards her shared home, humming a less cheerful tone. Who would steal from them? Especially a book? And when they could just ask her for help making one?

Her fingers threaded through the pages, stopping at one that was a bit too far past the top. She stopped and kneeled onto the ground before opening the book to the designated page. She ignored the story, and focused more on the curved handwriting that she knew Branch did not have.

The note was pink, but all the wrong shade for her skin color, if that’s what the thief was trying to accomplish.

 _Poppy_ , it read, _you’re probably wondering where Branch has gone, right? There’s no need to worry, I found him, and he’s with me. Remember the meadow? Branch’s bunker? You should come visit us, we’d be happy to have you. Oh, and do bring your friends, too. I can’t wait to see them again._

“Missing you already,” Poppy said bitterly through her teeth. The paper began to crinkle as her hand turned into a fist.  “With love, _Creek_.”

Poppy stashed the note into her hair, dashed into their home, and placed their things unto the nightstand, being sure to be extra careful with Branch’s book.

Then she promptly grabbed a pillow, fluffed it, and then screamed into it.

Creek! That dastard scoundrel! How did he even find them? She banished him half a decade ago! He was supposed to be out of their lives, especially Branch’s!

She could remember all too well Creek’s treatment of him. The constant fights, the skewed pretenses of hope, and the countless injuries she had counted from afar. Branch had always been doing things just to get the slightest acknowledgement from him, and that killed her. Creek had him wrapped around his finger, under his control, and Branch didn’t even seem to mind his antics.

Creek had even gone so far as to teasingly embarrass him in public, with rude and crass comments on whatever Branch did that Creek didn’t like. Eventually, when she saw the violence escalate into mindsets shattering and bones breaking, she stepped in, and gave her two cents. Creek wasn’t pleased when she forced him to leave, and she had to keep her heart from melting from the troll she once cared for.

To think that Creek could be turning that anger towards Branch boiled her blood, and had her fists curling.

What would he be doing with her book? Could it have been a ploy?

No, no, she reasoned, and sat on the edge of their bed. That’d be too easy. All she knew was that Branch and her book had been outside during some point, and Creek had gotten to him.

She turned to the notebook and brought it back to her, crushed it against her chest as she thought. She forgot to take the storybook. Branch might’ve tried to return it to her, and being under the protection of the bushes would make sense. She was the only one who knew about his alternative changes of color, and didn’t want to cause an uproar among their people.

So he’d be in the bushes and trying to get to her. Then Creek must have grabbed him somehow?

No matter, Poppy resolved, then reached for her overnight bag, fuming. Branch was back in Creek’s possession. She knew what Creek had done to him. Whether or not he was going to try again was up to him, but she was going to find them.

She quickly stuffed the bag up with provisions she’d need, including their crowns. She felt a little smug as she did so. Something Creek didn’t know and something for him to find out. It felt nice to have something she’d know he’d want. A secret.Speaking of which, they had a couple that Creek didn’t know. That Branch married her, that she was first to propose, that he previously had his colors, that he was king.

That he was hers. And if Creek went so far as to touch a single hair on his head, she was going to make him regret it.

She smiled grimly, and slung the overnight bag across her shoulder. She had to gather her friends. Then, they’d head back to Branch’s old home and give Creek the best party he’d ever have.

* * *

The irony almost made Branch laugh.

His bunker was heavily fortified and offered maximum security and protection in its prime. His territory was constantly surveyed, inlaid with traps, and provided several secret entrances should he need to leave undetected. Inside was a maze of intricate tunnels that, if going in the right direction, led you to rooms full to the brim with supplies. His armory had constantly being stocked with new weapons he found, and his burrow full of food ensured that he wouldn’t go hungry for about a decade.

 “Get it?” Creek grinned as he looped a rope around him and the chair he was currently sitting on. “It was meant to protect you, but now I’m using it to hold you here!”

“You’re a real comedian,” Branch said sarcastically. He didn’t fidget, there was no point. That rope was thick, and he should know, he made it himself.

During the big move, while everyone was trying to haul their belongings back to the troll tree, he had decided to leave his bunker behind, and only take a few personal belongings with him. He could always start a new one. Who knew? Leaving it might help him in the future.

And it did.

And it _didn’t_.

“I try,” Creek shrugged, and moved so he could tie a thick knot behind the chair. “So, what do you want to do?”

Branch blinked. “Why’re you asking me? Don’t you have a plan?”

“Well of course I do! I’m just bored!”

“Then, I don’t know, go read a book?”

“You’re no fun,” Creek pouted, and opted to play with his hair. One of Branch’s ears agitatedly flicked at Creek’s roaming fingers.

“Stop that.”

Creek hummed and swatted his ear away, proceeding to braid his hair.

“And what if I don’t want to?”

“I want you to. Now stop it,” Branch insisted firmly. If Creek’s fingers snagged on the ring, there was no telling what he might do with it. His hair grew thicker.

“What’s the magic word?” Creek prompted.

“Now.”

“Why? Don’t you remember?” Creek laughed. “We used to do this all the time.”

Of course he did. He wished he didn’t, and hated that the tiniest part of his heart missed it. He had a right to hate Creek forever.

“Exactly why I want you to stop.” Branch pressed, shaking his head in an attempt to get his former lover away. He didn’t like the way his hands felt against his scalp. They were to warm, too promising, and wanted them out of his hair, out of the door and out of his life. But Creek continued like he hadn’t heard him.

“—and you’re favorite kind of soup was June berry, and you never had a favorite color, and—”

“ _Stop_ ,” Branch pleaded. This was getting annoying, and tireless, hearing all the things they use to do together, all the things that had lost their luster due to Creek’s actions. He would never be able to eat anything sweet without some Creek-like voice reminding him of it, never be able to choose what he ate without some snide remark that’d fire in his head about him needing to lose weight, and he’d never be able to coerce words onto paper without the sound of laughing and cardstock shredding.

“Alright, doll,” Creek sighed, then perked up and reached for a chair.

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’ve made something for you,” Creek announced cheerily, ignoring Branch protest.

“Nice. You can just leave it over there,” Branch said, jutting his chin at the fireplace.

“Great!” Creek smiled and pulled something out of his hair. “I thought you might have forgotten about, seeing as I got rid of it.”

Branch rolled his eyes. That was a nice way of saying that he destroyed it.

“But I think you’ll remember once I start reading it. It was one of your favorites.”

Creek cleared his throat and peered at the paper.

“And yet you come, and somehow bring…”

Branch’s ears flicked, something in him clicked, and began to stir.

“ _No_.” Branch demanded. It _was_ one of his favorites. One of the poems that Creek had destroyed while waiting for him to come home. He still had no idea why he did so, and knew the reason was deeper than some lame excuse about an argument that Creek had given him all those years ago.

“A source of life when you start to sing…”

“I’m serious, _stopit_.” Branch’s voice began to rise and wobble.

“You apply the flesh and soften the ghosts…”

“ _Stop_.”

“And I am your ever gracious—”

“ _Creek_ , _shutup_!”

The said troll was taken aback, surprised and stopped. It was the first time in hours, maybe in years that he said his name. It was so rarely spoken while they were together, mostly just using the pronoun. _You_.

Branch head was bent, his eyes squeezed shut, and he looked like he would collapse if it weren’t for the rope holding him.

“Why’re you doing this?” Branch wheezed, breath bated and chest heaving. He was back to the pronoun game.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Creek smiled dourly. “’S because I love you.”

“No,” Branch flinched, and looked up. “Why do you have me here?”

“So I could spend some time with you,” Creek said as if it were obvious. “And I need to talk to Poppy. I have no idea what she’ll do when she gets here, but its most certainly going to have to do with me, so I want to be here for as long as I can with you.”

“She won’t be happy when she finds out.”

“I know, right?” Creek replied coolly. “She’ll be livid.”

“What do you think she’ll do?”

“Bedazzle my face to death.”

“And you’re calm about all this?”

“Several years of meditation does things to you, love. I have to be.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“You never had a problem with my nicknames before, doll,” Creek sniffed.

“That was then. This is now. Stop calling me names.”

“You used to love them though.” Creek sighed wistfully, a hand on his chin, his leg propped sideways on his knee.

“Correction; I used to _tolerate_ them,” Branch pointed out. “I never liked them.”

“You always were a terrible liar too. I never saw why you thought that you had to lie to me.”

“Um? Because I thought something bad would happen if I didn’t? Because you kept _hittingme_?”

“Because you wouldn’t listen to me!”

“I didn’t listen to you because I was fed up with—y’know what? I’m not having this conversation again.”

Branch tried to even his breath and cool himself down. For all he knew that was the exact reaction Creek wanted and didn’t want to give him any more time of day. Somehow Creek never lost his touch in being as annoying as completely as possible, but had apparently lost his ‘ways of Zen’. There wasn’t a single utterance of peace or his stupid ‘namaste’ slogan that he’d toss around whenever things got messy. The only thing he kept was his accent, and even then, his personality had brightened up too.

“Are you hungry?” Creek asked, back at Branch’s hair. His hand snagged on something, and he parted his hair and pulled it taut. Tied into his hair was a ring.

“What’s this?” Creek tugged the ring at Branch’s eye level. His face paled, and his mind blanked any excuseshe could conjure. Luckily, Creek supplied him with one.

“Is this for Poppy?” he asked, then clarified, “Were you, trying to propose?”

“You could say that,” Branch replied stiffly, stewing over the way Creek held the ring in his hand.

“Why?”

That was a stupid question. The same reason why Creek had stayed with him for so long, why Branch had gone over six months of doting abuse.

“Because I love her.”

“Because you love her,” Creek repeated, and then curled a fist around the ring.

“Is there a problem?”

“No, no. Does she make you happy?”

A soft smile crossed his face, and Branch actually laughed.

“More than you can imagine.”

“I’m glad,” Creek whispered, and tied the ring back into Branch’s hair.

“I really am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> creek in fact, was not glad that poppy made branch happy


	7. Shockin' Ain't It?

Her friends carried as much disbelief as she had. They had been there when she had sentenced Creek to a lifetime of banishment. She was too angry to think straight; she couldn’t even form complete sentences, so when she showed up on one of her friend’s doorsteps, they simply accepted the letter she gave them and read it over.

“So you’re saying—”

“That Creek—”

“ _Kidnapped_ him?”

Poppy nodded as she faced the two sisters, her mind too cloudy with confusion and questions.

“Why?” they asked simultaneously.

“Your guess is just as good as mine,” Poppy sighed. “But he told me where they are, so we’ll find out soon enough. Are you coming?”

They looked at her dubiously.

“Of course we are!”

“Good,” Poppy replied, smiling slightly. “Good.”

Should she bring all of her friends? It wouldn’t take long if she brought only a select few, and Creek did say to bring them, so it wouldn’t hurt to go exactly against his words out of spite. He wasn’t getting his way without a fight.

The two left her on their porch in order to go and grab a couple of things, and she sat, and she thought. What would Creek be doing to him? Why would he have him at all, and then go so far as to invite her as if it were some sort of party?

Was it supposed to be some sort of retaliation against her for his banishment? He knew that wasn’t her fault! He knew what he was doing to Branch was unhealthy! If only he got to see the damage he had done! Branch wasn’t able to eat until she force fed him! He had trust issues, claustrophobia! He didn’t like being alone! He hated sweets!

And she thought they had been making such good progress together, and now Creek was back to start that back up?

She wasn’t going to let him win so easily, not if she had something to say about it.

—

The trip back to the meadow was a long one. Their expedition started through the tunnels, which were delicate since they hadn’t been used in a long time, and were slick with the recent rain. There were even spots where the tunnels would give in no matter how little a weight you put on it, and your foot would sink in through the mush. Little to say, no one enjoyed it.

“So Creek took him,” Satin began.

“And locked him up in his bunker?” Chenille finished. They had been pouring over the letter in the past five minutes, looking for signs, checking for any type of subliminal meaning or clues, in hopes to find Branch.

“Pretty much,” Poppy replied, a finger to her lips. “I just want to know why. We all know what Creek did to him. Why does he suddenly want him back?”

“Well,” Chenille started, and then perked up. “What if he wants to talk to _you_?”

“What?” both Satin and Poppy exclaimed, but Chenille was on a roll.

“Think about it,” Chenille pressed eagerly. “The letter is addressed to you, and he wants _you_ to come over! It’s like a,” she snapped her fingers, “a ransom note!”

“A ransom note?”

“Exactly!” Chenille grinned, looking pleased with herself. “He wants to see you, but he knows that you won’t want to talk to him, so he takes Branch, and the rest is history!”

Chenille and her sister looked to Poppy for confirmation, and she stewed over her words. It would make sense. If Creek somehow gotten back to them and requested to see her, she wouldn’t even think twice about it. The only way that she would ever even look in his general direction was to take something he’d know she’d want.

“That,” she said slowly, “sounds like something he’d do, but,” she paused, “what would he want to talk about?”

They had nothing he would want, if she excluded Branch. Maybe he wanted to join them again?

“No idea, but we’ll find out soon enough, right?” Satin repeated her words from before. They nodded, and trekked on.

The tunnel didn’t want to cooperate, for the next step Poppy took ended in her foot getting sucked in. Satin and Chenille wordlessly went over to help her, but she declined, and pulled herself out.

They needed to get these questions answered, and fast. She didn’t know how much Branch could take.

—

Something had happened to Creek while he was expelled, Branch was sure of it. Either it was that, or Creek didn’t like his answer for his ‘proposal’ to Poppy.

Sometimes it amused him how oblivious Creek was from the obvious. It had been years. Branch had a ring, had known Poppy for his entire life, and she made him happy. That was everything he could ever want, but Creek still firmly believed in the fact that Poppy would never love him because he was grey and ruined events with his dour news and his useless survival trivia.

Branch hadn’t had the heart, or the patience for that matter, to tell Creek that he had changed, especially since he wouldn’t listen.

Then he started with the stupid proclamations of endearment every time Branch did something he’d find grating, or adorable.

“I _love_ you!” he’d call before going out to gather supplies.

“I’m sorry, what was that, _dollface_?”

“ _Sweetheart_ , you’re just going to have to wait.”

“Be careful with what you say, _love_.”

“ _Darling_ , I’m doing the best I can.”

“Enough with the silent treatment, _baby_. You’re driving me crazy.”

Didn’t he ever shut hit mouth? Branch had only personally known Creek, and even then, he wasn’t this talkative. Or annoying.

Then he started to ask questions about Poppy. How she was doing, how he was treating her, if she was queen, if she still remembered him.

“So,” Creek asked out of nowhere, “what is it about her that makes you happy?”

“I don’t know,” Branch replied. “She just does.”

“What do you like about her?”

“What’s not to like?” Branch answered vaguely. He knew what Creek was doing right after the first question. He was fishing for information.

“What has she done for you?”

“It’s not like that,” Branch objected. “I love everything about her. She makes me _happy_.”

He wasn’t afraid to openly say that. He knew it ticked him off. Creek seemed to know too, because he saw a glint in his eye, and then opened his arms.

“Can I have a hug?”

“I am the absolute last person who ever _would_.”

Creek cheered, and then reached in to embrace his former lover, who immediately protested.

“Get off of me!”

“Why?” Creek whined. “You know you love this.”

“Let me _go_!” Branch insisted roughly, fighting his restraints. Creek just laughed.

“But I love you.”

“I. Don’t. _Care_!”

“But I love you,” he dully repeated.

“Well. I. _Don’t_!”

That seemed to be what he wanted to hear, because he let go of him instantaneously, and something glittered in his eyes.

“I know,” Creek replied quietly before leaving the room.

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he does and he hates it


	8. Water-Based Introspection

Why was Creek such a _riddle_? Did he take satisfaction in withholding information that he knew someone needed? Granted, that wasn't who he had been prior his obsession with Branch, but that didn't mean his little tips and bouts of 'wisdom' weren't annoying.

If Branch thought that their little showdown two days ago had expressed any of Creek's inner turmoil or emotions, you might as well douse him a monotone shade of blue and call him Harper. Creek was back to his happy-go-lucky self in only a day, and he had picked up on how to annoy the living daylights out of Branch.

Have you ever taken a bath and had an awful, mundane, but startling moment of philosophical realization?

Somehow, Creek had managed to gain that sense of being outside the water, and listlessly peppered Branch with the baffling statements.

"If nothing's faster than light," Creek called suddenly from the book he had been reading from across the room, "how'd the dark get there first?"

Branch blinked. The worst part about these questions was because he almost had no way to answer them.

"Darkness is the absence of light," Branch pointed out tiredly. "It can't really move."

He wished that Poppy would find them soon. He couldn't deny that he missed her. It had only been a week, give or take, and he was ready to leave. Creek was driving him crazy by the nanosecond.

Said troll shrugged and delicately headed back onto his novel, as if Branch's being right bothered him.

To actually discover what pushed Creek's button's you'd have to make a hexadecimal code out of his color palette and add it to the estimation of the number of days he had been banished. Then you would take the square root of the simplified form of Pi and multiply it by the amount of times he had ever told Branch that he loved him, followed by the subtraction of any physical damage ever done to Branch, because Creek was everything accept for emotionally supportive.

Then you would convert it all into binary code and have it fed through the router of a Bergen's television screen, flip to an unsupported channel, and squint at it through the static fuzz.

The subsequent image projected would have the depth of a roadside pothole and brand itself onto your retinas, forever blinding yourself from ever watching broadcast television ever again.

And that was just trying to get Creek to open up. He'd be there for a while, Branch figured. It'd be better to learn about Creek's preferences so that he'd know which part of his food to poison. He did still have apple seeds (and maybe a handful of almonds?) in his green house.

Just like he always would, Creek picked back up on the habit moments after bothering Branch with the first.

"If revenge is sweet and best served cold, wouldn't it be ice cream?"

"That's oddly specific," Branch retorted, lightly amused. Was he poking at his current situation or on what Poppy would do when she got there?

"You didn't answer my question," Creek sang, alternating between squinting with a pair of glasses and adjusting them on his forehead.

"Are those my glasses?"

"Yes, and they're horrible, by the way," Creek reprimanded as if Branch had placed them into his hands, peering at him from the top of the eyewear. "What prescription are they?"

"One, that's because they're old, and two, three point twenty-five."

Those were the glasses his grandmother had given him before she had gone. They were big on him as a child and he couldn't wear them until he got older, and even then, he used them as sparingly as possible because the depth perception of his eyes had changed. He could only see through them if he squinted hard enough. Apparently, so could Creek.

Branch blanched. Any similarities he might share with him figuratively made him sick.

"I'll take that as a no, then," Creek noted dully, once again squinting through the lenses of the glasses. Branch didn't bother with telling him that wearing them for two long would hurt his eyes. He deserved that and much more.

"If the pen is mightier than the sword, why do actions speak louder than words?"

"Because pens don't speak, and actions aren't limited to fighting."

"When you paint a room, it gets smaller."

"Fractionally."

"Wouldn't it be ironic if someone were to die in a living room?"

" _What_?" Branch furrowed his brows, thoroughly confused. Creek merely laughed and shut the book he'd been pretending to read, set it down, and got up from where he had been sitting to face Branch and tweak his nose dotingly.

Branch decided that along with his lack of respect for personal space, he didn't like Creek in glasses. His eyes seemed way too big.

"Didn't you hear me?" Creek asked, pushing the glasses forward with an index finger. "I said, wouldn't it be ironic if someone were to die in a living room?"

"It'd be even more ironic if a pod opened during a funeral." Branch countered, retreating into his chair as much as physically possible. A crash-course in boundaries would definitely be needed. With Creek doing the crashing.

"Touché," Creek smirked with a raised brow. With an air of indifference, he returned to his seat and resumed his reading.

Branch shook his head, shifting in his chair, trying to get the tiniest bits of comfort where he sat. He missed Poppy more than ever. How did anyone tolerate Creek back then? Didn't they ever get annoyed by his questions?

"Do you ever think Poppy's coming?" Creek asked wistfully, as if he was the one she was looking for.

"Of course she is," Branch insisted for the umpteenth time. He had said it so much that even he was starting to doubt if his own words were true.

"You sure?" Creek inquired, flipping a page of his book, still remaining to seem uninterested. "She sure is taking her sweet time. What if she doesn't find you?"

"She'll be here soon," Branch pressed, and if you listened closely, it started to sound as if he were reassuring himself. But, even then, Poppy _would_ still find them, right?

"Really?" Creek asked absentmindedly. "Because, if I can recall correctly, it was you who said all those years ago that she would get eaten in the woods. All that singing and dancing would do her in."

His tone was so matter-of-factual that it gave Branch a heart palpitation.

What if she _did_ get hurt? During their escapade to Bergen Town, she had a huge musical number where she got eaten by _three_ different animals of _three_ different species on _three_ separate occasions.

And that was in the span of about two minutes. What would happen if she got into the forest with her friends? They hadn't been out in the valley for years ever since they moved their things back to the Troll Tree, what if the animals from all those years ago evolved?

It hurt just to think what she might be going through.

"It's different now," Branch insisted, mentally slapping himself. Earlier on, he had taught her a few cautionary measures should she ever find herself lost in the woods, about how to tune their ears to pick up sounds, tricks of the trade that were certain to trick animals, and how to tell which plants were edible. "I taught her a couple of things."

"Enough to save her life in the instance of an attack?"

"Why are you asking me this?" Branch asked, narrowing his eyes. Poppy's whereabouts shouldn't concern Creek.

Creek gave a grin. "Because whoever holds the key is king, and honey, you should see me in a _crown_."

Branch's silence was enough to make it widen.

"Oh, come now," Creek urged from where he sat, still observing his book with that same look of disinterest as if he hadn't said anything. "Surely you've shown her _something_ , right?"

Branch never knew how much Creek could grin. It was unnerving. He only had that look if he wanted something. And from the tone of his voice and how he kept on pressing Branch for answers, he wanted a scoop on Poppy. Or him. Or on the both of them, it didn't really matter which, so long as Creek got the info he needed.

"Nothing?" Creek asked, sounding a tad disappointed. "You didn't show her how to use the food storehouses? The gym? The armory? The _cannon_?"

"No," Branch answered, wishing the guy would do some good and shut up. He didn't feel like answering Creek's questions. He didn't really feel like talking anymore.

"'S a shame, dollface. She would have loved it."

"Of course you'd know that," Branch mumbled bitterly. Just because his capacity for mind-boggling questions was sapped didn't mean that he couldn't be sarcastic.

"Actually I do, Branch." Suddenly Creek's back straightened, he removed the glasses he'd been donning, and gave Branch a stare so cold he could feel it churn in his stomach. "I've known her my whole life. We grew up together. There are things I know about her that she's probably forgotten about, herself."

"Oh, really?" Branch drawled, wanting to ask him about how much he could ever truly know about Poppy when he wasn't the one _married_ to her.

"Yes, really," Creek replied, losing his cool, something Branch took note of. Why was it that Creek always got so hotheaded whenever the subject turned to Poppy, or to Branch's feelings for Poppy? "I can prove it."

"Be my guest," Branch muttered. He was sure everything Creek was going to list would either be a lie, or something Branch would've already known.

"Her favorite color was yellow," Creek began, and almost as if on cue, Branch perked up to react to that.

"Nope," he rectified. "That was before she told me that she doesn't have a favorite. It depends on how she feels."

"And," Creek started, as if he had rehearsed it, and, to Branch, he probably had. "When did she tell you that?"

"After the--" Branch shut his mouth suddenly, wanting to stop himself from absently chattering about what she had told him _after their wedding._

"After the what?" Creek asked, asked, examining his fingertips, with his newly returned air of indifference. And then he directed a smirk towards Branch.

Branch didn't even need to see it in order to find out that he had given Creek exactly what he wanted. Retaining his smile, Creek flipped to the page in his book, pushed the glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, and went back to reading.

"Nowhere in Humpty Dumpty does it say he's an egg." Creek recited, shutting his book.

Branch groaned.

—

The next person that said that white noise helped people fall asleep was going to get a stick chucked in their general direction. There she was, all cozied up between two leaves, the warmth of the fire radiating her, and the soft crackles it gave lulling her to sleep.

Except it that didn't.

It wasn't a matter of choosing not to go to sleep—she wasn't five anymore—it was a matter of not being able to fall asleep. Her body clock apparently didn't care about how comfy she was in her position.

She was sleeping in the same area she and Branch had slept in during their rescue mission to Bergen Town, mostly because she had forgotten to bring firewood and didn't have anything sharp enough to cut any down.

So, if Poppy could count up her constants, it'd go along the lines of, "Oh, I'm fine, my husband's been kidnapped , one of my old friends decided that that was the best option in order to talk to me, and now I have to find him without knowing if he's been hurt, or even alive. But yeah, I'm good. Totally."

Short answer to your subsequent short question; she was not fine. _Totally_.

What if he was hurt? Knowing Creek, and she _did_ know him, judging from the fact that they had grown up together, there was a high chance that Branch would do something that Creek would consider unsavory and take the initiative to punish him for it.

And Branch still lost his colors. Just imagine the damage Creek could do!

"Girl?"

"Hm?" Poppy replied tiredly, turning under her cover and eventually giving up on trying to relax. Look at her, she was gonna turn into a carbon copy of Branch.

"You okay?" Chenille inquired, separating her hair from her sleeping sister. Honestly, nothing short of a fashion disaster would wake her up.

"No, Chen, 'M not." Poppy sat up, deciding that it was futile to try to sleep and pushed her blanket away. "What if Branch gets hurt?" Poppy wailed, pulling at her hair. "What do you think Creek'd do to him?

"You know him more than I do, Poppy," Chenille murmured, reaching over to softly pat Poppy's head, pulling her hands away from her hair. "If Creek wants to talk to you, he wouldn't hurt Branch."

"We don't know that," Poppy hiccupped, her throat beginning to close. "We don't anything about Creek anymore. He's so unpredictable!"

 "But we do know that he's sensible," Chenille replied firmly, hands on her hips. "He wants to talk to you. And he has Branch with him. The dumbest thing for him to do would be to hurt him. "

"Don't worry too much," Chenille insisted when Poppy didn't reply, the shadow of her frame casting on the foliage surrounding them. "Branch'll be fine. Night."

"G'night." Poppy sighed when Chenille headed back to her sibling, and tried to assemble her thoughts enough so that she could think.

She gave up when it proved fruitless, letting her arms fall uselessly to her sides, and taking another deep breath, trying to steady the tattoo of her heart. She should listen to Chenille, it was only right. Branch'd be fine. Nothing was going to be wrong with him whatsoever. Creek wasn't crazy enough to try anything.

"I hope so."

—

"You miss her," Creek was eager to point out, flicking his finger at Branch's sullen expression. Said troll reacted by lifting his head and glaring weakly at his captor.

"Y'think?" Branch spat, but lowered his head back down. Arguing with Creek just didn't make sense anymore. Maybe it was the lack of food, or the fact that someone he had once shared a bed with was now one of the sources of his emotional turmoil, but he just didn't feel like talking. Or being. It helped that he was always tired, the bags around his eyes framed his frustration, and he just felt like closing them for a nice, long time.

What was the point, even? Poppy wasn't coming. It would never take her this long. Maybe Creek was right; she could've gotten eaten, or she could've just—decided not to try and find him.

Ah, yes. He was waiting for the day that Poppy would get tired of him. Who knew it took someone like Creek to get someone like her to change her mind so suddenly?

Creek bit his lip, and appeared to be indecisive for a moment, but only for a moment. Then his confidence rushed in again, and he stepped forward to give Branch a hug.

"What are you doing?" Branch noted how his voice dragged across his throat; it almost pained him to talk.

"Giving you a hug. You look like you need it."

"What?"

"A hug, dummy. It's scientifically proven to cheer people up. You see, the hug was invented in—"

"I don't care about that!" Branch snarled, wrestling himself from Creek's grip despite being tied to a chair.

"Then what _do_ you care about, Branch?" Creek murmured, a hand ruffling Branch's hair.

He took a gulp. "Poppy," he breathed. "I care about Poppy."

"So what's taking her so long?" Creek knelt down and tipped Branch's chin back before booping his nose, then stood and left the room, leaving Branch to deliberate on his situation. The worse part about Creek's questions was that he had almost no way to answer them.

He had no idea what was happening anymore. Suddenly Creek was back in his life with a dicey perspective on how things worked. Not once did he spout any of that guru drivel in an attempt to get Branch to sidle up with him, nor did he question the loss of his colors or ask him to cheer up. Heck, he hadn't even said a word about his vest!

And Poppy, was she even coming? Yes, he had expected her to eventually leave him—no one, not even someone as patient as Poppy would ever stay with someone that affected her so negatively—but he had never expected it to hurt so much.

It got Branch to note that, when he thought of revenge, he didn't think it was cold. Rather, that it was warm, fluid, and salty, like the tangible grief that trailed down his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all my tumblr goblins know where the title comes from


	9. Like Puzzle Pieces

The question was so arbitrary and so short that it took him  minute to believe that it wasn't skeptical.

"Are you okay?"

Creek'd come back in only a few hours, and watched Branch from the corner of the room, arms crossed and face expressionless.

Branch just spent the last twenty minutes sobbing over **Poppy** 's resistance to find him. He whole-heartedly  believed that his nature caused her to leave him there. He thought he was going to be stuck with Creek again, for another long time. Stupid ice-cream philosophy.

Yeah, he was okay.

_He was not okay._

Sniffling, nose blocked and eyes red, he raised his head to attention, facing Creek, who had only come back into the room when he heard Branch's blubbering, with a perplexed look on his face and a hand on his hip.

"I dunno, _Creek_ ," Branch spat. "D'ya _think_ I'm okay?"

Creek nodded as if he were Plimsy diagnosing an illness. "Yeah, something's wrong if you're _this_ sarcastic."

Branch scoffed. "Really? How could y'tell?"

"You said my name," Creek pointed out, calmly this time. He must've gotten his priorities in order. "And you never say my name."

Overwrought and shivering, Branch shifted his chair in the other direction noisily. He didn't have time for Creek's theoretical deliberation. Meanwhile, Creek simply walked around Branch in a circle, observing him, his arms respectfully behind his back.

"What do you want?" Branch groaned. His head was beginning to pound, and his eyes were straining.

"Something's wrong," Creek murmured gently, and then brushed his hand across Branch forehead. "How do you feel?"

"Peachy."

Ignoring Branch's sarcasm, Creek circulated Branch again, poking and prodding him, waiting to get a reaction, and  surprisingly, he received none. Strange. Usually Branch would wiggle away in protest and demand to be left alone. Now he was just Branch but with puffy eyes and a stuffy nose.

"Oh," Creek realized, eyes widening a tad. "You've been crying."

"No, I'm just sweating from my eyes," Branch replied cheerily, and dropped his look. "What do you _think_ I'm doing?"

"Sweetheart," Creek began gently, toying with Branch's hair. He plucked a strand and let it flutter to the floor, but not before removing the ring. "Why does it matter what _I_ think?"

Smiling, Creek twirled the ring in his hands with ease. Such a small, insignificant thing held so much meaning. Branch's brows furrowed, and every trace of his weepy disposition was erased. "Give that back."

Branch really seemed to care about a stupid piece of metal. Why _did_ he still care about it? Wasn't he upset over the loss of Poppy?

"And what if I don't want to?" Creek shot back without missing a beat. He fought to keep the small grin on his face. "Why does it even matter to you anymore? It's not like she'll find you."

A deep breath, and Branch pinned Creek down with a steely gaze. "Creek," he started slowly. "Give me that ring back."

"What's the magic word?"

"Now."

"I wish I could, darling. I _wish_ I could." He tapped the ring thoughtfully to his cheek, carefully analyzing Branch's reactions from the corner of his eye.

Branch seemed like he'd do anything just to get the ring out of Creek's hands. It was thick, and durable, and was beautifully entwined with Poppy's and Branch's color scheme. It must've taken him a long time to make it. It be such a shame if it were misplaced.

Or lost.

And what about Poppy? When she'd come, and _oh_ , he knew she'd come, wouldn't she want to know about the _wonderful_ engagement ring the village grump made for her? What would she say? What would her reaction be?

"Y'know," Creek smiled at the ring. Branch must really care about her if he took the time and effort to make it. It'd sure be a shame if it got hurt. "I think I'll hold onto it."

He pushed a finger onto Branch lips, to silence the protest that was to come. "Just for a little while," Creek promised. "That is, until the little princess comes over to visit. Wouldn't she love to see what you've made for her?"

It's difficult to hide a smile when you're giddy. Branch's eyes widened, and Creek was barely able to suppress his. "Don't worry," he reassured, tying the ring onto a few strands of his hair. "I'll take care of your proposal for you."

With a pleasant smile and a clap of his hands, he left the room, and didn't need to turn around to see that Branch was crying again.

"I love you!" Creek called before he left Branch's line of sight, called like how he always did when he left. This time, Branch replied back feebly, muddled by his tears.

" **You** have a funny way of showing it."

* * *

"This way," Poppy whispered, gingerly hopping from limb-to-limb of the tree, pack bumping against her back They made it to her old home, now barren of its colorful decorations in favor of the new one back in the Troll Tree.

The backyard was the same. Same old flowers, same bushes, same smaller than average lake. Nothing really changed. 'Cept if you count her current situation.

"Alright," she sighed when her feet touched the ground. "I know the way from here, it's about ten minutes, but we should be fine."

"And you're sure Branch is there?" Chen clarified, landing next to her sister.

"We all read the letter, of course I'm sure!" Poppy insisted. "But we can't go straight, we gotta go around, that way he won't be expecting us...as much." To accent her point, she gestured to the bushes on the left side of her home. From there, they should be able to make it to his house without being seen, just as long as they didn't make any noise.

"Right, right," Satin replied. "You ready for this?"

"As I'll ever be," Poppy huffed, then turned and sprinted into the foliage, the twins hot on her tail. She was so close to get to see Branch again.

She just hoped she wasn't too late.

* * *

Creek brought his hand to his forehead. That's what he was forgetting! How crazy could he be to let it pass his mind? Branch never said anything about it!

Creek barged back into the room just as quick he had entered it, making the distraught trolls jump in his seat and stare up at him with wide eyes.

"I forgot to feed you!" Creek exclaimed. Creek would occasionally  try to spoon-feed Branch something in order to get him to eat, but because of Branch's resistance, he gave up on it all together. Which lead to him to forget that living things needed to eat.

"What?"

"I forgot to feed you," Creek explained as it were a gimme question on a board game. "And you _do_ need to eat."

"And you?" Branch asked wearily. Not that he cared for Creek's wellbeing per say, but he'd never actually seen him eat. And Creek was with him all the time.

"Sweetie, as much as it flatters me that you care _so_ much, you're my top priority. Now come," Creek insisted, and actually cut the rope that held Branch down. It was totally unexpected, and Branch slumped to the floor. His wrists and ankles pulsed, and rubbed his hands over them to soothe them.

It wasn't the first time that Branch questioned Creek's motives.

"A bit of fresh air just might do you some good. Heaven knows you **need** it," Creek said energetically, as if strolling was something they did every day, and then tugged on a dazed Branch's arm.

Outside was beautiful, a stark contrast to the mess he had gotten into. The sun was unabashedly beaming down and warming the flesh of the earth. Tiny little blooms pushed their way up from the ground, some even dotting the roof of his home. He didn't want to ask if it was Creek's doing. Didn't feel like it either.

"Isn't it nice out here?" Creek asked pleasantly. "I know just where you're going to have fun!"

Branch mumbled in reply, but Creek either didn't hear him or didn't care. Probably the latter.

Branch blinked. Here he was, no bonds, not being held down by Creek at all. He could run right now. He could leave, or hide, or do _something_ to get Creek off his trail.

And Creek, the ever-loving guru, gave him a predatory grin. "I wouldn't try that if I were you."

"Try what?"

"You're not leaving me so easily, love," he promised, getting right to the point. "Wonder what'd happen to your little engagement plans if you did. It'd be unfortunate if your little bauble got lost."

"You wouldn't—!"

"We both know very well that I would, dollface," he replied coolly. Besides, if Poppy didn't come to find him, what made him think that she'd want to see him again?

Reluctantly, Branch followed Creek around the old village, quietly nodding to whatever touristic piece of memorabilia Creek'd spout.

He missed Poppy, whether she was on her way for him or not. Dealing with Creek was beginning to feel like a chore. Something was wrong with him, with Branch, on the inside. His nose was runny, and his eyes started to protest the Sun's rays. He'd definitely spent too much time inside, but it's not like you could blame him.

Branch sighed, trekking behind Creek as he pointed at every little thing like a child in a toy store.

He really missed Poppy.

* * *

They made it. Sweet forces above, they made it.

Taking the longer route proved successful. No one had heard them, but it didn't stop them from hearing ambient things. Tree limbs settling. Animals in the distance chattering. What might've sounded like footsteps.

There was also another reason she took the foliage way. Branch was prone **to** adding secret entrances to his home, so while Satin and Chenille groaned at the sight of a dirt wall, Poppy cheered, and pressed onto the top right corner.

It took a couple of stubborn presses, but the dirt gave way, and they crawled inside.

"Since when did Branch add tunnels to his bunker?" Satin asked when Poppy patted the dirt back in place.

"Why does Branch do anything?" Poppy replied, wiping her hands over her dress. "Paranoia does things to ya."

Satin and Chenille chuckled when Poppy began to race towards the end of the tunnel, but they couldn't help but be anxious too.

Her excitement and worry was accented with her breathing. She was going to find them! She was gonna find them and hug the death outta Branch and give him a big ol' kiss and then _absolutely murder Creek_ and—

She tumbled onto the floor of the bunker, popped up like a cork, and then stumbled through the hallways, completely ignoring Satin and Chenille as she rushed to find them.

She searched through the food storehouses. Still full of bread and non-perishables.

She took notice of his greenhouse. His apple seed-cyanide bag was left untouched.

She checked his armory. Only basic weapons were left behind. The cannon, of course, was back at home. Still, it got odd to see it gone.

Poppy slumped against the wall of his room, glaring at the doorknob as if it was the source of her problems. She palmed it, a little rusty due to its years of inactivity, turned it, and pushed against it.

A lone chair sat patiently in the lamplight, strips of rope laying discarded on the floor. A dog-eared book and a pair of glasses was abandoned on the table a little ways past the chair. Satin and Chenille were next to come through the door, took a quick assessment of the damage, then turner to Poppy.

She was too busy to notice them, preoccupied with staring intently at the floor, at a strand of thick, black hair.

* * *

Creek'd led him to the smaller than average pond behind Poppy's old home.

How appropriate.

Creek immediately rolled his pants up to his knees and began to kick his feet into the water. Branch, in an a futile attempt to take his mind off of Poppy, began to toy absentmindedly with the algae. That got boring after five seconds, so he laid on his back with his eyes closed and let the sunlight warm him.

Refraining from thinking was easier said than done. You ever remember something that hurt you? Something you did in the past that makes you frown now?

You're supposed to think about it. The thing is, people really don't like doing it.

"You okay?" Creek called from where he was sitting.

Branch sighed. "Does it matter?"

"It matters to _me_ ," Creek replied, continuing his splashing. " **Save** , well, for _you_."

"That's reassuring," Branch drawled.

"I almost forgot what we came here for," Creek muttered, and then hopped from where he was sitting. He disappeared into the shrubbery for a moment, and then came back, bearing two huge strawberries in his hand.

Branch's eyes widened, and his stomach growled in protest.

Creek, without looking at him, tossed the strawberry at Branch, who caught it, and eyed it, suspicious.

"Oh come now," Creek groaned, deciphering what the grey troll was thinking. "If I wanted to poison you I wouldn't be eating one of them too, would I?"

Just to prove his point, he took a bite into his share of fruit, and stuck his tongue out at Branch, who, repulsed, flinched away, but took his strawberry with him, and cautiously ate.

"D'Poppy ever grow strawberries before?"

It's better to answer Creek with what he wanted than to get blackmailed into doing it later. Branch looked up at him and wiped the juices from his mouth before he answered."Yeah...and then she'd cut 'em up and bake 'em into this weird bread."

Creek snorted. "Really?"

"Mm-hm," Branch sighed, recollecting memories of catching her surrounded by monstrous quantities of the fruit. He made quotation marks in the air. "She calls it 'Strawberry Sourdough'."

"That sounds terrible."

"It does," Branch admitted. "But it's actually _really_ good."

"Did you like them?"

Another sigh, deeper this time. "I love them."

"I'm glad," Creek said, sitting up, looking at Branch with indifference. Pointless conversations with Creek were common, and they all revolved around the things Branch held dear.

Eventually, when the sun began to brush the horizon, Creek hoisted Branch to his feet, and with a tiny smile, began to lead them back to his the bunker.

The bunker used to be his home, too. He had a room there even. He'd been allowed free-roam of the place. That was years ago. Things used to be different back then.

—

They had to come back. A tiny part of her insisted so. The rest of her decided to turn a darker shade of pink.

Satin and Chenille exchanged glances worriedly. Poppy still hadn't said anything.

"Y'see?" A totally different but familiar voice intruded, not far behind them. "I told you we'd have fun!"

A muffled sound of agreement, and the footsteps came closer. Frantically, they spread out to hide, Poppy choosing to camouflage under the table, while the twins separating to different branches of the room.

The Queen took a shuddering breath when the first set of footsteps entered the room. Purple.

She exhaled in relief when a grey pair walked past hr and sat down next to her in the chair. He was, now, only a ruler's length away from her.

* * *

The room felt different when they walked inside, but Branch, not in the mood to fight with Creek, sat down in his chair and waited for instruction. Creek, brows furrowed, swept the room with his eyes. The rope scraps were disturbed, one moved out of place.

The strand of Branch's hair he'd discarded on the floor was gone.

Creek smiled, and then it melted into a loud long laugh.

Look like the Queen cared more about the grump than she let on. Took her long enough. He couldn't say that he didn't miss her. It'd been so long since he'd seen her face.

When Branch stared at **him** , perplexed, Creek ruffled his hair affectionately, turned to the table, and smiled. It was so predictable of her to choose such an obvious hiding place. Nevertheless, he had guests! And royalty! Oh, and he'd get to present the ring Branch worked _so hard on_ for her! It'd be a waste not to show her how pretty it was!

Creek untied the ring form his hair, and gently tossed it under the table, smiling when he heard a tiny gasp. It was wonderful to hear her again. He missed her.

"Did you miss me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im not trying to be obvious (she says as she points out clues) but check out the bolded text
> 
> watch as i leave you on a cliffhanger fOREVER because inspiration takes such a long ass fuckin time  
> rereading my old shit fills me with APPREHENSION  
> but i gotchu anon
> 
> [anyways come chat](https://chasinthecloudsaway.tumblr.com/)


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